Three poems submitted and not one accepted. With each closing door comes an open window. The 'theme' was CUSTOM/MADE and the contest was to write about the writing process, near as I can tell. I think I hit the mark pretty close.
One hundred times the artist bounces
The red rubber ball.
One hundred times the child dances
Round the cherry tree.
One hundred times old man speeches bring
Forth endless slaughter.
100 odes, 100 lyrics,
100 tales, 100 novels.
All is bent, pulled, twisted into the
Pliers of societies fires...
The whole world hurtles a future
Of unimaginable violence
And seriousness is spat out
The hard tasteless shell.
Enthusiasm is slapped down
An old diseased whore.
Praise be to the processed.
All Honour to the bland.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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